


Breaking Point

by biinu



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, M/M, Psychological Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16362635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biinu/pseuds/biinu
Summary: Beneath Minho's touch, as he customizes him according to his needs, Chan begins to crack. Vulnerability.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jessruinslives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessruinslives/gifts).



> I'm finally back and it's with a fic for my wonderful stray kids <3 Thanks a lot to @lalazora for letting me write this prompt of theirs, you should definitely check out their fics too!
> 
> Dearest Jess, I hope you enjoy ;)

With the deafening sound of shattering hopes, the porcelain doll explodes into a million pieces against the wall.

 

“This is _not_ what I taught you!” Minho runs a hand through his hair and grips a fistful of it, pulling hard in frustration. “When will you, for once in your goddamn life, follow my instructions!”

 

His apprentice and cousin is quivering beneath him, making himself small in his chair as he lets Minho’s anger brush over him. _It will be over soon, it will be over soon . . ._

 

Jisung is not good at crafting yet. In fact, Jisung is not particularly good at anything, and that’s the reason why his parents thought it best for him to live with Minho for a while to learn his art and skill. What Jisung hadn’t anticipated was how . . . _serious_ his cousin was about this work — of course, he makes a living off of it, but Jisung is still a beginner. He expected his cousin to be patient with him but that is not the case.

 

“I keep telling you, Jisung — if you are not sure about something, _ask me first_ and then get to work. How many more times do I have to tell you this until you understand?”

 

Down in the basement, their voices reach the surface just barely. Muffled and distorted, nobody outside getting a clue. Minho is yelling, and frantically gesturing towards the shattered porcelain on the floor and cursing Jisung out.

 

However, Jisung is not angry. And Jisung is not upset in the long run, because Minho is a good teacher and he is just a slow apprentice. He will get better, he’s sure of that. And for now, he will endure Minho’s anger until he doesn’t have to anymore.

 

It’s the act of getting yelled at that he doesn’t like. Jisung hates loud noise. Always has, always will — as a young kid it was difficult for him to play with the others because he hates the screams and the loud laughing and all the _sounds_ that they make. They force him into a state of panic, freezing his body in place. It’s difficult. And so the doll exploding against the wall, Minho’s raised voice, it’s getting to him, but he’s not angry.

 

Jisung is yet to understand Minho properly so that they can get along well.

 

And it’s that day when Jisung realizes that Minho is not . . .

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Minho is fighting feelings. He feels guilt and passion at the same time. It’s an odd combination but it comes out whenever he gets upset at Jisung. Whenever he got upset at the apprentices he had before, who eventually fled his mouth.

 

Because when he yells at someone, it’s out of _passion_ — this is his work, his life, and sharing his skills and craft is precious to Minho. It’s precious and the results of passion are meant to be _perfect._ But when the anger washes over and leaves his body and mind, the passion remains and the anger is replaced by guilt.

 

He doesn’t like yelling at people. He does it because he cares about them and he knows this is not the right way. But it hurts him when he sees his beautiful dolls being — abused like that. They’re people, too, and nobody wants to be ugly or missing that special something.

 

Nobody.

 

But he knows he’s not right when he yells. Jisung understands and he feels grateful for that.

 

And so Minho is taking the staircase upstairs, to the room he’s given Jisung for his stay at his house.

 

“Can I come in?” He says softly against the door, hands gripping the tray in his hands tighter. Apology tea — sounds odd but works. Jisung is never mad at him. But Minho knows that he has to apologize and does so by bringing tea, a sketchbook and discusses everything with Jisung.

 

“Of course,” comes his cousin’s voice from inside. A few seconds later and the door swings open, Jisung already reaching out to take the tray from him.

 

He places it on the small table in the middle of the room and takes a seat, Minho following him in slowly and settling across from him.

 

“I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier,” Minho says and runs his pointer along the rim of the tea set. It’s one of the rarer ones to get where he lives in Korea, modeled after classical British designs. He loves the porcelain. Minho loves anything porcelain. “I’ll do my best to not let it happen again.”

 

“I’m rather worried about how you’re feeling,” Jisung responds and pours Minho a cup. It’s still boiling hot, steam coming off it in waves of puffs. “You’ve never broken a doll before.”

 

Minho offers him a sad smile. “In the time you’ve been here. I’ve broken many dolls, especially when I was just starting out. I had to learn this as well, you know? So I don’t . . .” he takes a sip. The heat burns his lips but it doesn’t stop him. “I don’t understand why I get so mad at you. You’re just at the beginning.”

 

“Things just happen sometimes,” Jisung agrees and attempts to take a sip out of his own hot cup. Unlike Minho, he winces at the heat and puts it down quickly. “I get it. You want to make beautiful dolls. I’ll get there. You’re a good teacher.”

 

“You really think so?” Minho can’t quite believe what Jisung said. He’s yelled at him, made him clean up the entire basement by himself, labeled him a waste of material in the heat of the moment and Jisung is still kind. Still understanding.

 

“Of course,” Jisung continues, this time taking a real sip. To Minho, the tea is a good comfort. Jisung’s room is unusually cold, and the tea slowly introduces warmth back into his body which had cooled down so quickly. “I appreciate that you want to teach me, and that you teach me with passion rather than against your will. Nobody wants to teach a good for nothing child. But you’re doing just that. It’s a first.”

 

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Minho leans forwards and reaches out for Jisung’s hand. It’s cold, like the rest of the room, and if he focuses hard, he could hear his hand sizzling on Jisungs. “I’m sure one day you’re going to be a great doll maker. Better than me, better than everyone. This is your craft.”

 

Jisung smiles and drinks. This is his second cup. “Thanks, Minho. We will see. I will work hard to get better, and try to find my natural talent at the same time.”

 

“What do you mean, you haven’t found it yet?”

 

Jisung’s smile morphs into a frown. “Have you?”

 

Minho smiles brightly at him and rubs his hand softly. “Yes. My natural talent is design. I design a doll vividly in my head, I treat it like a person aiming for perfection, and when I create the doll I break the design into tiny little pieces, making one by one to set the puzzle together in the end.”

 

“I should try that,” Jisung responds and his smile is back. “Maybe my dolls will turn out better.”

 

Minho nods in acknowledgment and props his elbow up on the table. “And as for your talent . . .”

 

He can practically see Jisung holding his breath in anticipation.

 

“It’s words.”

 

And disappointment.

 

“What do you mean, ‘words’?” Jisung says and the disappointment isn’t only in his face but also drowning his voice.

 

“You have a way with words and a soothing voice to go along with it. I’m sure with that sly mouth of yours you could wrap somebody right around your finger barely even trying — remember Bae Joohyun? She’s a regular visitor, but she rarely buys. And that one time you spoke to her, expressed what dolls you found suitable for her, she bought. She bought the doll you kept talking about, remember? No matter what I tried, I would have sounded desperate. And you were so natural about it.”

 

“It might not sound like something special at first, Jisung, but you can do much more with this gift. You can tell compelling stories, you can use it to your advantage.

 

“‘In a situation of despair, the words of man are the only tools to save him from his demise — a single chance which, executed with witty speech, will save his life.’ Lee Seungju, _The Garden._ Never read it?” Minho rises from his seat and catches a glimpse of Jisung’s widening grin before he turns to the bookshelf.

 

If it could only always be like this . . . Minho loves this. He likes spending innocent time with Jisung. Jisung tries hard. Why does he have to be so awful to him sometimes?

 

His hands dance along the book spines, eyes searching for the correct title. _The Garden_ is a book Minho devoured when he was younger. He reads it again from time to time, but when he recalls a quote from this novel, he travels back in time to when he was twelve years old and reading the book in his father’s office.

 

Now he’s merely twenty and he’s passing it on to the next. As if Jisung was his son. As if Jisung will have some life-changing flash of genius when reading the book and with it, the answers to all his questions emerge.

 

Truth is, _The Garden_ is indeed a brilliant book. It addresses the versatility within intimate and distant relationships, how one can drop the many masks they wear, and one can imagine that there’s a lot of lying and sweet talk involved. That is not what Minho wants to encourage Jisung to do, to lie his way through life. Because The Garden is more than that — it’s a beautiful story of a child like him finding his own, true face through the masks of others and shedding his own, one by one.

 

He’s dreaming again. Wandered off into the world of the book. There it is in the bookshelf, and he’s probably made Jisung wait too long. It’s not necessarily in perfect condition anymore, but to Minho, that’s also a beautiful thing. It proves that it’s been loved. And Jisung can have it now.

 

“You might find yourself in this,” Minho states and hands Jisung the book as he sits down. “There are so many people, so many different kinds — I’m sure there’ll be someone who’s just like you in this story.”

 

Jisung takes the book from him and eyes the black book thoroughly, flipping it open to read through the first page. When he’s done, he looks back up at Jisung and thanks him.

 

“How many times did you read this to be able to recite something so quickly?”

 

“Countless times,” Minho answers. “My favorite character said it. Easier to remember that way as well.”

 

“Wow, you sure are dedicated,” Jisung laughs and presses the book to his chest. “Thanks.”

 

“Dedication is key, doing things countless times is just as important. That’s how I learned to make dolls, too.” Minho winks at Jisung.

 

“And you’re so good at it,” Jisung rubs his neck. With the tea providing contrast to the cold, it seems Jisung is only now realizing that this room is freezing. “Say, how did you even discover dolls for yourself?”

 

Minho puts his cup down and drums his fingers on the table. Truly a difficult subject, with so many details that Minho doesn’t even know where to start . . . if he were to answer. He plays with the painted handle of the cup. “That’s actually quite the long story.”

 

His cousin smiles. “I have time.”

 

“Of course you do, but I think I will tell you at a different point,” Minho explains and runs a hand through his hair. The raven bangs are getting too long, and every look in the mirror reminds Minho of the haircut he keeps forgetting to get. He’s a busy person. Being self-employed, he’s practically constantly at work. Running a shop by himself at twenty? Most people don’t believe it.

 

“Why?” Jisung asks. “Why can’t you tell me now? You’re making me even more curious.”

 

“Because . . . no reason, actually. Just not now,” Minho doesn’t succumb to Jisung’s pleading eyes and curious, young face. Jisung is indeed extremely expressive. Lucky for Minho, he’s immune to it.

 

“Anyway, I’m going back into the basement. I need to clean up the shards,” Minho announces as he gets up once more and heads for the door.

 

“Ah, come on!” Jisung whines and shoves his cup around between two hands. But he realizes he can’t change Minho’s mind and gives in. “Do you need my help?”

 

“It’s alright. My fault, my responsibility to clean. See you for supper?”

 

“Sure,” Jisung has also gotten up and drops down onto his bed. It’s almost too small for him, being Minho’s childhood bed. The room has barely changed, apart from the few traces of chalk left on the wall from when little Minho had been feeling a little adventurous, nothing ever hinted at the fact that a child used to live here. Minho never owned many toys or had the decoration of the room be a little more child-friendly. It was difficult to afford back then.

 

Minho nods at him and leaves the room. His hand lingers on the door knob before he finally lets go and heads downstairs, to confront the result of his unnecessary anger.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He loves his workshop. His workshop is a place of utter and complete peace of mind, where he is engulfed in the beauty of his creations. And the _material_ — Jisung did a great job at making his collection of textile, ribbons, buttons, wigs, paint and the canvases (‘naked doll bodies’, that’s what Jisung called them on his very first day) appear presentable and organized.

 

Minho spends his life down here. He crafts and creates and not once has he drawn out a single plan. It’s all in his head. All of it, every single doll he’s made, every single doll he is yet to make — that includes _the_ doll. The only one in his mind that is lacking something. The body and clothes are perfectly fine in Minho’s imagination, but he can’t figure out a face for the life of him. Any face he comes up with is not perfect enough, which results in this doll also not having a story.

 

Every doll is supposed to be better than his last. And this _one_ doll . . . he doesn’t have a face for it. It’s kept him awake a few nights before. Simply thinking about which face is the most beautiful for his perfect doll.

 

At this point, the doll is merely a joke. He knows he’ll never find a way to complete his vision. So he told himself that the day he figures out a face for this doll marks the end of his career as a doll maker.

 

He will make the doll and quit. If there is any way to nail down absolute perfection, as he has been trying for so long now, then there would be no way to take a step further.

  


Minho yawns. It’s getting late already and he shouldn’t be thinking about that damn doll. Once he’s gotten planning and thinking, there would be no way for him to get sleep tonight.

 

He passes by the shelves with his collection of wigs and marches around the table to the spot where the doll broke.

 

There’s slight damage to the wall where the heavy head had hit it. Minho pushes a chair out of his way to get to the shards. He remembers seeing the head explode against the wall and then the rest of the body against the grey, concrete basement floor.

 

And there they are. Pieces of his precious doll scattered around all over the floor, dangerously sharp edges of the individual pieces twinkling attractively in the light.

 

They’re so beautiful.

 

Minho slowly drops onto his knees, by the largest piece — the head. He picks it up and tilts it in his hand, parts of the face such as the mouth and the left eye still distinguishable. He spent so much time carefully painting them on. Why would he destroy his work because Jisung made a mistake with the details on the _dress?_

 

He can see little fingers. Laying around, broken, the size of real baby’s. Guilt brushes over Minho in form of a wave of nausea, spreading its sickening void in his chest and pounding hard on his temples. As Minho’s head begins to shake, nausea expands her territory by crawling down into the pit of his stomach.

 

It contracts. Once, twice, violently, making Minho gag. He can feel everything he’s eaten today whirl around his inside mechanism, making its way up. Nothing happens.

 

At this point, he feels desperate to throw up so that the pain the contractions bring can stop. But it doesn’t happen.

 

His eyes land on the little fingers again, a small chunk of three digits, the rest scattered around other pieces. And then it stops. Minho doesn’t feel like vomiting anymore. He wraps his arms around his stomach and shakes, almost unnoticeably, out of fright.

 

What doesn’t stop is the hammer threatening to smash his skull in with no mercy.

 

He chokes up. There’s a huge rock in his throat replacing his Adam's apple and it moves up — it moves up and it’s painful, so painful that Minho finds himself opening his mouth widely to let it out so the pain can leave too.

 

But instead of a rock, a wail escapes his mouth. It makes way for the tears, warm, salty, heavy droplets dripping off his long lashes onto his cheeks and slowly wandering along his nose, accompanied by suppressed wailing, all the way to his mouth.

 

His jaw trembles violently, mouth opening and closing, teeth clashing together every now and then. His tongue is in danger. A little slip-up and he might not be spitting out wails instead of rocks but pieces of his tongue instead of wails instead of rocks.

 

He cries out again and this time reaches further, taking multiple shards into his hand and gripping them tightly, pressing them against his chest.

 

Minho raises his busy fist to wipe his nose. “Oh god,” he presses out, bending forward in agony and shame. “I killed you.”

 

Something warm seeps through the fabric of his shirt and Minho dares to open his eyes, looking down. The shards cut deep into his hands, warm blood rushing along his arms and staining his sleeves, pants and the chest of his shirt. Pain is second place — his priority has always been the visuals. The vivid images in his brain, the stories of the dolls that he brought to life, and he killed one of them.

 

This is her blood.

 

“Oh my god,” Minho forces again and his sight becomes blurry with tears. There’s no way he will allow this ever again.

 

He drops the shards only to reach out again with both hands, drawing them into a hug, gathering and collecting the shards in a pile and he’s sorry, he’s so unbelievably sorry for the doll he’s given a story in his head.

 

A handful in his left, another handful in his right, Minho keeps pressing down tighter making his skin hiss sweet tones. His right hand, his dominant and strongest one — therefore the one with the most damage to it — gives in first and he drops all the shards in that hand, bringing it up to his neck instead and letting it wander up, up to his jaw which he grabs and pulls at, digs his fingers into and tries to make it stop — the shivering and the trembling of his jaw.

 

He’s so _loud._ His hysterical wailing is too loud. It reached Jisung upstairs and it scared the crap out of him. It might have reached the outside, but these walls of this house have something about them that enables everything that happens within it to stay unnoticed.

 

The little face on the shard — he can’t find it anymore. And the fingers, too. Everything is red, the smooth paint is covered, and his sight is too blurry to try and search by size. He lost her.

 

“Ah, no,” Minho sniffles and mixes another wail with a coughing fit. He brushes his bangs out of his face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his forehead and allowing the hot, thick liquid to drip into his eyes. He wants to blink it away but it takes too long and Minho grows impatient. “I can fix this, ah, I will fix you I can repair you,” he’s still rubbing at his face, trying to get that fucking hair out of the way, “Ah, please wait for me don’t leave me just yet.”

  
  
  


Jisung stands behind Minho and watches. His cousin is completely out of his fucking mind. It’s too loud. Jisung can feel his body stiffen, freezing in place. To him, this has always been the dumbest coping mechanism. What helps him would be running away from the source of this unbelievable fucking noise, but his body decides to be counterproductive and rather leave him no choice but to stay exposed to the source of his stress.

 

“Minho,” Jisung says, lips and fingers the only things left he can move. His own voice begins to tremble, but nowhere near to sounding as lost as Minho’s. “Please stop.”

 

At this, Minho halts. His body is still shaking and he’s rocking back and forth, the shards in his left hand pressed into his lap as he trembles at the force with which he digs his fist into his skin. But he doesn’t cry out anymore.

 

Jisung’s presence is . . .

 

He turns to face Jisung. Abrupt and quick, making Jisung wince despite his frozen state at the ugliness of the face covered in blood staring back at him. Blood in his eyes, his mouth, sticky hair, covering what’s left of Minho’s stupid fucking precious doll.

 

The noise stopped.

 

Minho isn’t crying anymore. He’s still rocking back and forth and silently promising that he’s going to fix what he did without thinking but at least Jisung can relax.

 

An eternity passes and life rushes through his numb limbs again, allowing Jisung to break free from the spell cast upon his body.

 

What’s next?

 

Right, Jisung takes a step forward. There’s no possible way to describe what he’s feeling seeing his cousin like that, so helpless and . . . and vulnerable.

 

It’s safe to say that the pounding in his chest is so loud that his eardrums threaten to explode and so aggressive that he feels his heart pounding its way up to his throat. Less like a heart but like a rock, climbing upwards and passing his Adam's apple and looking at his cousin like that, looking at him being this pathetic and just fucking _sad,_ makes Jisung want to scream for the very first time in his life.

 

“I’m — It’s okay, Minho. I’ll take you to the hospital and we’re gonna have that looked at, alright?” Jisung extends his hands reassuringly, and when Minho stops rocking — finally — Jisung can lower one hand a little bit.

 

When Minho doesn’t object or shy away, he goes lower to try and grab his arm to pull him up. His hands are obviously fucked. There’s no way he can hold to anything but to the shards that are buried in the wounds they created, like mere splinters from a rough, wooden stick might dig into an adventurous child’s hands.

 

“They’re gonna fix her?” Minho bawls and shakes his head. “Ah, no, I have to do it. This is my, my, my,”

 

And he keeps trying but the word ‘fault’ is simply too heavy on his tongue.

 

“It’s okay. They’re gonna fix you first and then you can help them fix . . . _her,_ ” Jisung goes along with it, grabbing Minho’s arm for good and slowly pulling him upwards. Minho allows it.

 

One foot. The other foot. He’s standing now and slowly, slowly working his way upwards. His body is completely bent forwards but at least he’s standing. And there’s something about the way Minho crawls up, back as stiff as a plank, oddly twisted and almost inhuman, that makes Jisung want to let go of him right now and scream for help until his voice abandons him.

 

But he’s standing. Minho is taller than him and he looks down, with those lost eyes and they’re there for one second, the other they’re closed. “Ah, it hurts — It hurts — It hurts, Jisung.”

 

“I know,” Jisung doesn’t but he tries to imagine the pain he put himself under. _What was he_ thinking, _why would he —_

 

Time drags and they steadily approach the stairs. It’s taking them a while to get there, but it’s needed time. Any faster and Minho might collapse. Not even Minho exclusively, but Jisung feels as though his knees might give in any second. This pace is okay.

 

Jisung is going to get him to a hospital.

  
  
  
  
  


Things are not the same after this day.

  |   |   |    
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	2. Chapter 2

**Six months later**

 

Minho stands behind Jisung, watching his dear apprentice try to paint a face on his doll for the first time. For the past eight months they practiced sewing and design extensively, so Jisung could acquire at least a third of Minho’s creativity. Back when Minho was starting out, learning how to sew a decent dress had taken him a year. But eight months? Jisung is progressing incredibly fast and Minho is proud of him.  
He hasn’t yelled at Jisung ever since and the difference is remarkable. Jisung learns faster without being pressured.  
  
There’s something off about the eyes. One of them is a little too big. Minho points at the handkerchief on the table. “Try redrawing the left one’s outline. It doesn’t look like the other.”  
  
“Right, thank you,” Jisung doesn’t look up from the doll and pats around on the table until he feels the cloth in his grasp. Jisung has gained a lot more determination as his skills developed. Minho feels pride, is proud of him for persevering with him and putting food on the table for the past six months.  
  
Minho’s hands are still bandaged. He has to keep them this way for another two months he was told, for the damage he himself had caused them took too long to repair itself. The doctor informed him that this might hinder him from doing his job correctly — his hands could tremble, the bumpy scars preventing him from perfecting details as he feels along the doll.  
  
But Minho doesn’t think much of it. The way he sees it, his hands wouldn’t dare to abandon him. No matter what he did to them.  
  
Jisung is already redrawing the eye and it looks a lot better.  
  
“You’re doing a good job,” Minho announces and watches a smile spread on Jisung’s face. “Shall we rest for a little bit? Let’s have something to eat.”  
  
“Sounds heavenly right now,” Jisung places the doll carefully to the standing aid and rubs his neck. “I’m getting super stiff here.”  
  
“Then you should also go take a walk after we eat. You go upstairs first, I’ll inspect your doll and see what else we can do,” Minho says and Jisung nods, following his order and putting the apron away.   
  
Minho sits down on Jisung’s chair as his cousin ascends to the main space, where all the dolls ready to be sold are exhibited for purchase. A few rooms at the back of the place and the area upstairs are all for private purposes. So Jisung crosses the gigantic room with all the white shelves and slips through a wooden door, into the kitchen.  
  
“You’re a beauty, aren’t you,” Minho whispers more to himself than to the doll. “Jisung’s doing a great job. He might get better than me in no time.”  
  
He can’t really grab the doll. He refrains from grabbing anything unless he has to get dressed or eat. It pains him, not being able to work on his dolls and relying on Jisung to sell.  
  
He’s always present when the customers come in, but Jisung does the talking. No one would buy from a doll maker with messed up hands. They would question his credibility. Is he truly making the dolls himself? Isn’t he just scamming everybody?  
  
And so he stands by the counter like one of the dolls and watches Jisung smoothly convince every single curious customer — no matter if their intention had been to simply take a look around — to buy something.  
  
Minho mainly spent the past six months attempting to expand his business in his mind. Through Jisung, news of this little shop went around town and it became increasingly popular. Of course, Minho has to try and adapt his assortment to the customer’s needs. He started mapping out small hats, necklaces, bracelets and other accessories and dresses for the dolls he sells, so that every buyer can customize them to their needs.  
  
At first he wasn’t fond of the idea of his customers changing the way the doll he made looks. But then, as the demand became greater, Minho realized that the dolls are people too. And people don’t like wearing the same thing everyday.  
  
Using canvases with pre-drawn faces (a long time ago, Minho was bored), Jisung makes good dolls now. Not perfect, but good enough to be sold. That way the shelves don’t get empty quickly. And maybe he over exaggerated in his thoughts, but his shop isn’t popular to the extent that his shelves are blank in no time. There are just a few more people, and soon there might be even more than that. Jisung doesn't even have to work his ass off with Minho's prepared dolls anymore.  
  
He tries to picture the doll in front of him in something else. She’s wearing a blue dress with yellow details, just like he had wanted her to. But . . . wearing a different dress than this? It looks terrible in Minho’s inner eye. He silently acknowledges everyone’s different tastes and if his customers are satisfied with putting her in different clothing, then he will be too.  
  
So, what is Jisung left to do . . . the mouth is missing, the beauty mark below her eye Minho is envisioning, her brown wig. Minho realizes he’s yet to teach Jisung how to properly glue the wig to the doll. Maybe he’ll even show Jisung how to make a wig. But that’s the advanced class. Once Jisung nails everything he needs to make the dolls, he can go on and learn how to make the individual components.  
  
Minho rises from his seat and strolls over to the shelves with the wigs. He knows the doll will be a brunette, but he gave himself some freedom with the hairstyle. Usually he also has that planned, but for this doll he would like Jisung to choose from a few.   
  
Among the redheads, the ravens, the stunning blondes, Minho definitely doesn’t have enough brunettes. He also has a few short haired wigs, because every now and then he makes a male character or simply a short haired girl, but well, he doesn’t use them very much.   
  
In order to take the head out of the shelf, Minho has to hug it. Unfortunately he can’t take one in each hand and be done with it in a flash. He _could_ grab them, but it hurts too much so he refrains from doing so and follows the doctor's advice.This has him considering the choices more thoroughly, so that he doesn’t have to keep running around.   
  
He’s picked out three so far and is going for the fourth, silky hair braided skillfully by yours truly. At the wedding of his sister Heeyeon he had been in charge of styling her hair because she likes the hairstyles he’s done for his dolls.   
  
Thinking about Heeyeon makes him almost nostalgic. It’s been a few years since he’s seen her. She came visit a few times, but once she gave birth she became so busy, and he never saw her or his niece after the day of birth.  
  
Why does she have to live so far away?  
  
Minho is so deep in thought, thinking about Jisoo’s soft little hand he got to hold once Heeyeon had recovered a little bit. She was small, and accordingly fragile, as fragile as the porcelain modeling head that is slipping out of Minho’s embrace —   
  
It breaks on the floor.  
  
Echo.  
  
The shattering resonates in Minho’s ears as an unbelievably powerful echo, rewinding and starting anew once the pieces have jumped apart again in front of Minho’s inner eye.  
  
He can see the head dropping to the floor and bursting.  
  
There it is again.  
  
And the noise — it doesn’t go away.   
  
Minho is frozen in place, eyes slowly wandering down to face the mess he made by not paying attention. Is this how Jisung feels when he would yell at him? Freezing like this, because he despises loud noise? For Minho it’s not the sound itself, its the breaking.  
  
And he sees it again and again. Slipping out of his clumsy grip, crashing and bursting on the floor.  
  
It’s still ringing in his ears.  
  
If Minho could see himself from a different point of view, observe his own body from the outside, then he would see a terrified young man, eyes so wide they might pop out of the socket at any given time, hands quaking so hard he can barely move.  
  
But he doesn’t.  
  
“Minho?” Jisung calls from upstairs and Minho wakes from his traumatized state. He recalls the reason for the bandages. The reason for having to hug the stupid fucking model in the first place.  
  
It’s the first time he’s broken something since that day.   
  
“Minho! A customer is requesting a commission!” Jisung calls again and Minho physically shakes his head to drive the thoughts away.   
  


Just when he wants to move to the stairs, Jisung is already sprinting down. He wants to say something but freezes when he spots Minho standing right next to the mess he made. Wig forgotten on the floor, small shards scattered across the hair. 

The _doll_ falling over and over again in an imaginary vicious circle of creation and destruction.

  
Not only Minho remembers too well. Jisung does, too — and now they’re both staring at each other, wide eyes, but Jisung comes back to his senses faster than Minho had.  
  
“Let’s talk about this later,” Jisung breathes and waves Minho over. The latter nods, starts nodding and can’t seem to be able to stop, simply keeps nodding as he climbs the stairs past Jisung and enters the main space, leaving his cousin lingering in the moment behind him for a few more seconds. Jisung blinks twice at the shards, mumbles something incoherent under his breath and follows Minho out, pressing the trap door shut behind him.  
  
  
  
  
Minho has found his way out of trance, but his mind is still a little cloudy, like an engine taking too long to start. The walk to his exhibited dolls is burned into his brain, he doesn’t have to think. Every corridor, every nook and cranny is absolutely familiar, enabling him to navigate throughout the house blindfolded if he wanted to.  
  
The only new thing about it is the customer.  
  
It’s a man, examining the dolls in the display window. He’s wearing a neatly tailored suit, from what Minho can see at first glance it appears to be fitting just perfectly. Not a centimeter too long or too short, neither jacket nor pants.  
  
And only now Minho realizes that this man asked to see Minho in the flesh, to request something he hasn’t done in years. Years ago, before making dolls his life, he would scribble his friend’s doll wishes for their sisters into a notebook and make them for a little money. Ever since making dolls became his full-time job, Minho has been focusing on just creating to have something to sell and survive.  
  
But at this point, making customized dolls even seems like a good idea.  
  
“Welcome,” Minho says warmly and bows when the customer turns briefly. When he remembers the state of his main tools, his hands, blood shoots into Minho’s face. He’s been avoiding this, how did he forget? But there’s no way around it anyway.  
  
Jisung slips past him and goes to the counter, where he takes a few sticky notes and starts scribbling.  
  
The man has turned away again, this time pointing at a particular doll. “These are magnificent. You really make these yourself?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Minho beams, following the direction he points into to one of his favourite dolls. No wonder it caught his attention. That one is, if he does say so himself, one of his masterpieces. “As of recently, not so much, but I usually make all of my dolls. And that one unfortunately isn't for sale.”  
  
He’s got to be straightforward about it. If he points out his hands first it’s going to make him sound more professional. Little does he know, nobody actually cares that much.  
  
The man smiles and turns his attention back to Minho, closing the distance with a few steps. His black curls fall into his face and move as he does, but Minho can’t stop staring at the very components of his face. It's just now that he can properly see it.  
  
His eyes. The nose. Mouth.  
  
Just like a few minutes ago in the basement, Minho freezes. His pulse races in his chest, getting faster each passing second. The stranger's face is like a punch to his own.  
  
“I came to give you this from family. She’s . . . sick, we’re praying for a fast recovery, and these days she has been making a lot of requests. This would be her next,” the stranger reaches into the chest pocket of his elegant suit and retrieves a slightly crumpled piece of paper. Still staring at his face and not knowing who 'she' is, Minho extends his hand slowly and grabs the paper from him without averting his eyes.  
  
He blinks twice, thrice, then unfolds the piece of paper and reads.  
  
 _My lady friends have such beautiful miniature versions of their daughters. It is my wish to receive a doll that resembles my only, treasured grandson Christopher. So I can keep him by my side when he has to leave for Australia again. No matter what it costs, I will pay for a doll made to look like my Christopher._  
  
“Of course we’re not letting her pay for it,” the stranger says once he figures Minho must be done reading. “But I heard of your shop and I thought I’d pay a visit, see if there’s something you could do.”  
  
“I understand,” Minho gives the paper back and uses this as an opportunity to stare at his face again.   
  
As soon as his eyes had met this stranger’s face, all Minho had been able to see was stars. And as he looks at him again, the stars haven’t lost any of their shine. This is impossible. _There is absolutely no way._  
  
But he attempts to control himself. His pulse is going even faster, at a speed Minho believes will have his heart shoot of his chest, but that is not something the man can see, is it? “My apprentice and I can definitely fulfill this request to meet her needs. When can we meet Chris-“ Minho’s eyes roll back for a second in which he tries to recall the foreign name.  
  
The stranger laughs. “Christopher,” he completes, smile prominent on his face and revealing the jewels in his mouth. He places a hand on his chest, upon his tie. “This is the guy.”  
  
And there is no doubt by now. It’s clear to Minho that he won’t be able to control himself. He has to look. Because the engine in his mind is running wild, fabricating wild theories and stories for the doll. The impossible one.  
  
Because its face is right here. Right in front of him.  
  
“But please, call me Chan. I’m in Korea now after all, might as well use my Korean name,” Chan explains. “I think you can imagine that she likes . . . extravagant things. Hence why she’s the only one of my relatives in Korea that uses my birth name.”  
  
He laughs again, and Jisung joins him in from the counter because Minho won’t.  
  
There he is. He is right here.  
  
If he’s ever thought the forever doll was impossible to make, all of these beliefs came crushing down because here it is and it speaks to him.  
  
He’s never seen something like this before.   
  
And he hasn't noticed that they've fallen into an awkward silence, Chan's eyebrow rising in confusion at the other man staring at him. Minho's mouth is a little open. Jisung sighs.  
  
"Can I have a look at the letter?" Jisung asks, not that it's particularly important, but it's just a small attempt to loosen the suddenly tight atmosphere. Chan smiles at him and his eyes reduce to crescents, which Minho finds odd because they're not supposed to. Once more he takes out the paper and walks over to Jisung, placing it on the counter while Jisung ties his shoes.  
  
Chan turns back to Minho, who had followed his movements with his head and finally managed a smile as well. "So, how would you like to go about this? Please let me know what is most comfortable for you to work with. What kind of pictures --"  
  
"Actually," Minho interrupts him and wraps his left arm around his body, bringing his right up to his chin in thought. He has an idea, a very, very good one, now that Chan has brought this up. "I wouldn't prefer to work with pictures."  
  
"Oh, is that so? By all means, please do tell me what I can do for you," Chan offers and he's so incredibly polite, his voice like honey and twinkling teeth highlighting everything he says. If Minho listens carefully, he can detect a slight -- very slight -- foreign accent in his words.  
  
"Is it possible for you to schedule meetings with me?"  
  
Chan's eyes widen and he puts his hands in his pockets. Behind him, knowing Chan can't see it, Jisung's mouth falls open. Modeling a doll after a person is a first, but this is a _first_ first. "I mean, if that's what's going to help you make the doll then sure, I can make the time. I do love my grandmother after all."  
  
"Amazing," Minho smiles and this time it's greater, brighter than before. And apparently it's contagious, because Chan's eyes are crescents again. "Jisung, will you get my notebook from downstairs?"  
  
His cousin nods and does as he was told, heading for the separate storing room with the trap door leading to the workshop.  
  
"I won't be able to start working right away," Minho says and raises his hands -- Chan nods, understanding. "But my apprentice Jisung can start the basics. The doll will take about five months to be ready."  
  
"Five months? I expected it to take longer," Chan exclaims with prominent surprise.  
  
"If we ship to Australia, then maybe," Minho grins. It's easy to make Chan laugh. He lowers his head in acted embarrassment and Minho likes it. “But other than that, juggling other projects, five months is a very realistic timeline to me.”  
  


This is absolutely surreal. Surreal. He will wake up in his lonely bed soon and recall this dream, this wonderful dream, and the very details of Chan's face will slip his memory, making it impossible for him to make his final masterpiece. 

 

Chan, or Christopher, is not real.

  
Jisung returns with the notebook and Minho asks him to note down Chan’s contact details. According to Chan, he’s staying at his grandmother’s place for the time being and is even considering to emigrate from Australia to be closer to his relatives.  
  
How is the dream not ending yet?  
  
It’s gaining unnecessary detail, too many details for Minho to absorb. He’s still waiting for Chan to dissolve into nothing, disappear into thin air, so that he can sit up in his bed and chuckle at this unbelievably realistic dream.  
  


“If you don’t mind, I would like to use today as the first meeting and get to know you a little better. It’s my specialty to create dolls with that little something, their stories reflecting in their design. Of course I want your doll to be perfect, and for that, if you consent, I’d need to hear your story,” Minho explains and Chan listens attentively.

 

The customer doesn't say anything for a while. Minho could swear he sees something shift in his expression, and he can't blame him. He's asking about personal information.

 

Then Chan nods. “Assuming I said no, what would you do to proceed?”

Certainly not the answer Minho predicted — he does seem serious about his grandmother’s wish for a dream character — but of course Minho explains the worst case scenario. “Then I’d have to come up with something myself.”  
  
Chan grins. “That’s interesting,” he remarks and snaps his fingers. “How about a mixture of both?”  
  
“I’m not sure I quite know what you mean,” Minho says.  
  
Wake up. Wake up, Minho. And it’s impossible for the voice in your head to become louder, though in this moment Minho could swear it does.  
  
“Simple, I tell you everything I want to tell you and you fill what’s lacking,” Chan elaborates and snaps his fingers once more, this time not an idea but rather in thought. Then again. A rhythm appearing out of nowhere with no context or importance.  
  
Minho agrees to this proposition. Wake up. Wake up, Minho.  
  
“Where would you like to do this?” Jisung asks and closes the notebook. A glance at him tells Minho that Jisung is feeling a little bit uneasy. Nervous. Wake up, Minho. “The living room is cozy, how about that?” Jisung then suggests and Chan levels his hands with his shoulders.   
  
“Please lead the way,” Chan smiles and Minho reciprocates. He’s smiling a lot. Minho doesn’t usually smile that much. “Although, I’d be curious to see your working place someday.”  
  


“You will once we get started,” Minho tells him and gestures towards the door at the end of the corridor, past the counter. 

 

He starts walking, Chan and Jisung joining him. The customer is not particularly tall, but his enourmous presence makes up for that. Elegant movements cutting through the air, Minho feels like this man alone is filling up the whole room.

  
The corridor is so narrow that Minho’s and Chan’s shoulders are almost touching, and Jisung fell behind. Jisung accidentally steps on Minho’s heel as Minho had become slower, and Minho trips slightly, shoulder now crashing into the wall for support.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t want to—” Minho isn’t listening. Surprise, it’s surprising and serving as an anchor at the same time. Minho turns his head to the right and finds this new customer, this stranger, Bang Chan to be still there, and as his concentration returns he also finds that the man has grabbed his arm — hard — to stabilize and help him.  
  
Not a dream.  
  
He is real.  
  
“Are you alright?” Chan replies to Minho’s unreadable staring.  
  
Minho’s response is merely nodding.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
After Chan and Minho have gotten settled in the living room with some tea, Jisung figures he’s not of much use right now. Minho is planning to record the ‘interview’, so Jisung doesn’t have to stick around to take notes for Minho. For the past six months he’s been Minho’s hands — and because of that, he thinks going into the basement to clean up the mess his cousin had made is a good enough activity for the time being.  
  
He jumps down the stairs with a broom and a plastic bag, humming a melody he’s making up.   
  
Jisung halts in front of the shards scattered all over the floor. Minho hasn’t broken anything since that day, six months ago. Normally Jisung wouldn’t have expected something like this — but he’s seen Minho’s face. Six months ago and today again, as he towered over the remains of a once beautiful creation.  
  
 _It’s better if I clean it up,_ Jisung thinks and crouches down to get to work. Last time Minho went back to clean up . . . well. It’s okay now. He’s going to ask Minho if everything is alright later today, after Bang Chan is gone.  
  
 _He did really well at covering up his distress at first,_ Jisung thinks. He has swept all shards onto a pile, carefully picking them up one by one as he forgot the dustpan upstairs. He could go to get it, but this allows Jisung to think longer. Yes, Minho had brushed his distress off at first, but Jisung saw that as he spoke to the customer, it started to resurface.  
  
The two of them hadn’t really spoken about what happened or what had gotten into Minho that day. Jisung tried of course, and kept trying until he was absolutely sure he wasn’t going to get a single thing out of Minho.

 

It's been two months since then and Minho still hasn't brough it up again. Jisung knows by now it would be the most inappropriate thing to mention, so he keeps quiet. He keeps quiet, but he's burning to know.

 

There’s something that keeps Jisung awake at night sometimes. He tries to imagine, tries to measure how well he knows his cousin to still have no idea what would cause such a hysterical, painful crying fit. After talking to him normally and apologizing to him.

 

But when Minho broke the model earlier, that facial expression had been right there. Jisung knows he’d been thinking about that day. Actually, it’s good that Chan had come into the shop only a few moments before. Who knows what would have happened?

  
He’s almost done. Jisung has picked up all the tiny pieces, and is now going for the biggest. There are still a few shards so tiny Jisung can’t even grab them, and he would simply sweep those onto the dustpan later. They wouldn’t cause much damage anyway.  
  
Jisung hopes everything is fine upstairs. He does like Chan — he’s elegant and spontaneous. Chan is really flexible with Minho’s requests, but what Jisung thought strange from both parties was when Minho asked to get to know Chan better. What does he expect? Basic information or a vivid retelling of his life story?  
  
Makes Minho kind of sound like a shrink.  
  
And Chan had also handled it oddly, but Jisung can’t really blame him. He would also be taken by surprise if an absolute stranger asks for information so directly, and then again, Minho is just doing his job. Jisung has a lot of thoughts and opinions about this — and he’d better keep those to himself.  
  
He ties a double knot into the plastic bag as he scans the floor for shards he forgot, so that he can sweep them onto the little pile of micro shards to throw away later. Balancing his weight onto the upper part of his feet, Jisung turns around in slow motion to pick up every single shard that he had overlooked.  
  
There aren’t many. To his left there is a rather large one and he doesn’t quite understand how he hasn’t seen it, and behind him are feet.  
  
Feet?  
  
  
Jisung’s heart skips a beat and he looks up, gasping in relief when he sees its just Minho. He doesn't know who else it could have been, really, but it startled him anyway. Minho is looking at the plastic bag in his hands with raised eyebrows.  
  
“You surprised me,” Jisung says and ties the knot tighter. But it’s not only that. He hadn’t anticipated Minho coming downstairs anytime soon. By the time he would, though, the shards would have been gone and everything is fine. And here he is.  
  
“I just came down to ask you something,” Minho explains and he scratches his arm with the bandaged hand. He doesn’t go on with the question right away.  
  
“Well . . . what is it?” Jisung hugs the plastic bag and stands up, taking a step forward to cover the there lying shard with his foot. Of course Minho doesn’t miss that.  
  
“I — don’t you think —” Minho begins but the words don’t come out the way he wants them to. Jisung is patient. “Don’t you think that . . . Chan is a little weird?”  
  
“You left him alone in the living room to come downstairs and ask me this, hyung, really?” Jisung sighs and Minho shrugs, folding his arms in front of his chest. “No, I don’t think he’s strange. He’s friendly, polite, well — what else is to expect?”  
  
“You might be right . . .” Minho shakes his head so his bangs fall differently into his chest. “He just. . . reminds me of someone, you know? And I thought I might be dreaming.”  
  
Jisung chuckles. “Dreaming? Now seriously, hyung. You should get back to work. You can dream about handsome Christopher Bang later.”  
  


And Minho laughs as well. Jisung likes when Minho laughs — it’s genuine and suits him well. A lot more than that look. 

 

"He just said something strange . . . and I had to come downstairs right away, you know," Minho continues and rolls his eyes, as if he can't believe himself.

 

"What is it?"

 

"He said something like 'Your dolls look like real people, I'm sure they're unbreakable.'"

 

JIsung snorts. "Isn't that what you aim for? You should be flattered."

 

"I know, I know. I always say that myself. But it sounded strange when he--" Minho's eyes are fixated on the plastic bag in Jisung's arms. "--said that."

 

"It's just a compliment," Jisung assures him. "Of course dolls aren't unbreakable. He's trying to be nice."

 

"Right," Minho smiles. He hates scars.

 

 

 

 

“Thank you for cleaning up, by the way,” Minho says and points at the plastic bag. “I was picking out wigs for your doll as you can see, and well, the model slipped out of my hands.”  
  
“Good thing you have a million more of these, then,” Jisung wouldn’t be able to describe how glad he is about this explanation. So the circumstances in which it occurred had been innocent enough. He doesn’t have to worry much about Minho, then. He’d just been startled.  
  
“You can leave the bag there,” Minho nods at the chair next to the sewing machine and Jisung follows. He gets up on his feet and places the bag on the chair before heading back to pick the wig up.   
  
“I actually like this one,” Jisung says and turns it in his hand, examining the still perfect looking hairstyle.  
  
“Then you can go ahead and glue it to your doll.” Minho is back at the stairs, already a few steps closer to Bang Chan. “Unless you wanted to do something else of course.”  
  
“No, I really don’t have anything to do right now, so I might as well work on my doll.”  
  
  
That’s what Jisung does. He finishes off the lips with smooth, skilled strokes just the way Minho had taught him. He’s actually starting to feel something like pride. Jisung has been noticing his improvement and fast acquisition of skills and it makes him incredibly happy. Not only this, but ever since Minho told him that his natural talent is words, Jisung has been thinking about how he can use his eloquence as a form of art.  
  
He wants to start writing songs, or poetry, everything, really, so that he can find his comfort zone and improve from there. Minho has helped him a lot. If only he could help Minho as much. 

 

But he can't stop thinking about what happened a few minutes ago. Just what exactly did Minho tell Chan to excuse himself downstairs? It's kind of funny, because it's simple.

 

Time passes quickly when working on dolls. Upstairs, however, it doesn’t.  
  
  
  
  
  
“This is fine?” Minho asks as he places the small device on the table. This is spontaneous, he hasn’t planned any questions, no special requests, nothing at all — he will just try to have a regular conversation about Chan’s life, record and replay it over and over again until he figures out how to start.  
  
He knows he’s not going to wake up, because this has proven itself to be real. And he’s doing this. Spontaneous, thoughtless, allowing important thoughts to dam up until they overflow. They’re for later. They’re for later.  
  
“Of course,” Chan crosses his legs and smiles, dimples reappearing. Minho has had noble looking customers before, but no one gets anywhere close to Bang Chan. Everything he says and every little thing he does radiates elegance. No doubt he must be wealthy. “I didn’t expect something like this but it’s fine, I suppose.”  
  
“Why does your grandmother want a doll of you?”  
  
“Well, you’ve read the letter. She doesn’t want to be the only one without a doll reminding her of a family member.”  
  
“Why you?”  
  
“I’m her only grandchild.”  
  
Minho takes a sip of his tea, nodding. “Say, how do you expect the doll to look like? Be as detailed as you want.”  
  
Chan thinks for a moment, running his finger along the handle of the tea cup and eyes wandering along the walls of this room. They’re decorated with small porcelain pieces such as miniature cups, flowers, random shapes. Gifts from Minho’s dad, from a while ago. “Would you be able to make the doll look exactly like me?”  
  
“Is that an insult?” Minho laughs and Chan lowers his head in embarrassment. “I can do whatever you want.”  
  
“Then . . . the details on my face should be the most important ones. Clothes are less relevant, but I can try to find an outfit suitable for the meetings.” Chan leans back into the soft cushioning of the couch. A strand of hair loosens from the combed back hairstyle and falls into the middle of his forehead. Minho sees a flaw.  
  
“What about skin?” Minho allows himself to ask. He’s an artist.  
  
“Skin?”  
  
“Any details. Birthmarks, moles, you name it,” Minho proceeds, rising to his feet and approaching the doll on the windowsill. He remembers his friends thinking it was strange, no, almost scary that porcelain and dolls served as the only decoration for his place. It doesn’t matter anymore, though.  
  
He grabs the doll carefully and moves the black curls away from her neck. This is the only doll he would hurt himself for . . . now. He doesn't like to think about that day, so yes, this doll is the only one. He usually doesn't move his fingers too much but right now, for Bang Chan, he will.  
  
“This is a doll of my mom. My father made it, and he always paid attention to such details. Here,” he stands before Chan and holds it out, the customer carefully taking it from him. “The neck. There’s a tiny red line — if you look closely — a scar.”  
  
Chan nods when he spots the line and tries to touch it, but it’s so small that his finger tip covers it completely.  
  
“I actually hate scars,” Minho continues. “I only draw on really prominent ones, not remains of wounds caused by pets, or falling, those kind of things. Only the really visible ones.”  
  
“Why do you hate scars?” Chan asks, moving the artificial curls back so that they can fall back onto the tiny collarbones, the chest, arms. He hands Minho the doll. “And how did you mother get the scar, if I may ask?”  
  


“They’re ugly. Like stains, nasty stains that don’t go away. Ruining a perfect canvas,” Minho explains, returning the doll to its assigned position. It looks best there. He’s tried every spot in the house he can think of, especially those he’s around of all the time. It doesn’t look good in his workshop because it needs to be seen. But there, it blends in with the models and tests and Jisung’s, the failed ones, and she doesn’t deserve that. “So I don’t like painting them on. But I like beauty marks. I draw those on even though they will be covered by clothes later on. A different kind of satisfaction.”

 

"And as for my mother . . ." Minho proceeds, stroking the doll's head. "It was an accident. I don't remember what exactly happened, but I know it was an accident."

 

“I understand,” Chan smiles again. “You do value the beauty of your dolls a lot.”

  
“What’s the point in making ugly dolls?” Minho sits back down.  
  
“There is none,” Chan agrees. Minho snips and points at him. “Exactly.”  
  
“But beauty isn’t the only thing I pay attention to,” Minho continues, remembering the recorder on the table has been running for a while now. “This might be a little more difficult to understand . . . but the aura is important as well. Every doll has a story, which means yours will too, and that’s the reason you’re sitting here right now. The finished doll not only looks but also feels like its story.”  
  
“No, I do understand that,” Chan puts his cup back on the table, now empty. “I will tell you what I think is important.”  
  
“Thank you,” Minho says and his eyes wander to Chan’s fingers, nervously drumming on his thighs.  
  
“Well, I was born in Australia, and as soon as I was old enough to travel, my family visited Korea every summer. It quickly became a second home, rather than the place where family lived. I made friends who waited for me to return the next year,” Chan begins, sounding unsure. Minho can’t really blame him. Jisung also thought it weird that Minho needs to come up with stories for his dolls. But Minho finds it weirder that he doesn’t get to make up his own story for his perfect doll. His perfect doll is sitting right there and it speaks to him.  
  
“It was fun, until my parents announced we wouldn’t be going anymore as soon as I turned sixteen,” Chan’s face falls, and Minho observes him more closely. “This is my first time back in Korea since then.”  
  
“How long has it been?”  
  
“Six . . . six years? Six years I think,” Chan responds and looks around the room again. “It must be six years.”  
  
“Why didn’t they want to come anymore?” Minho pours more tea into their cups,   
  
"They actually never told me," Chan confesses after taking his time with the answer and leans back again. "We came back now because of my grandmother. No matter how often I had asked them, though, they never said anything. I suppose it was a fight with somebody in the family and I was too young to be told."  
  
"I see," Minho knows how to work with this. To anyone else, to his apprentice Jisung even, this information seems useless for the creation for a lifeless object. But it's a lot more than that. "How did you spend your summers from then on?"  
  
Chan thinks for a long time again. This time, his eyes pierce through Minho's face as he does. Then he blinks, once, twice, three times before he opens his mouth. "I mainly tried to connect more with friends there. My mind was always far away, thinking about what I could do, but I realized that it was important to bond with the people around you. Not with the people you haven't even met yet."  
  
Minho furrows his eyebrows. He doesn't exactly know what that is supposed to mean. "Could you elaborate on that?"  
  
"I thought about my future, that's what I mean. I tried to figure out how to get back to Korea, tried to figure out what I wanted to do and how to achieve it. It's silly, now that I think about it," Chan laughs and his hand is still rubbing his thigh. "And not much of importance."  
  
"No, no -- please continue. Why did you leap so far instead of focusing on your surrounding in the first place?"  
  
Chan's eyes light up. His pale, white face seems to shine in all colors Minho can imagine, now. Like the window glass of a church when the summer light projects through. "Have you ever owned something valuable?"  
  
"I have a few pieces from my parents and ancestors," Minho informs him. He doesn't tell him all of it, because he doesn't have to know. "Why?"  
  
"My family has never once owned something valuable. But all my parents' friends did. So I wanted to figure out a plan -- I was just a delusional child -- to make a lot of money, so I could buy whatever treasures I desired." Chan laughed again. "So I was busy all the time, thinking about how I could make it work."  
  
"Looking at you, I'm going to assume that it has worked, though?" Minho eyes him from head to toe. It must be true, because his no doubt fitted suit and shining shoes, jewelery and wristwatch are obviously expensive.  
  
"I mean, yes," Chan admits and his laughter fades into a smile. "Not the way I had planned to, but I'm very content with my work."  
  
"What do you do for a living?"  
  
Chan finally reaches up to fix the strand of hair and tucks it back into the slicked back wave of his hair. It loosens again, but Chan carefully presses it back inside. The flaw is gone. "It's not exactly the most common profession around here, but I find business men interested in particular goods and direct them to the people that offer, or can deliver. I made so many deals I became somewhat . . . popular, you could say, almost."  
  
"You have been successful in Korea, too?" Minho asks and his eyes don't leave the spot Chan had tucked the strand of hair into. He's hidden it effortlessly, perfectly, a completely covered up flaw. He knows.  
  
"I can be successful wherever I go," the twinkle in Chan's eyes seems to intensify and Minho knows that this is Chan's passion. This is something Chan could talk about forever, he can tell, and Minho also knows how to convey this.  
  
This is not all he needs, but it sure is enough for now. Since he can't start with the doll yet, he's figured out a different way to begin. It's something he hasn't done in quite a while, and his bandaged hands are also in the way for this, but Jisung will help him. Jisung has to help him.  
  
"Thank you, Bang Chan. I think this is enough for now. When will you be free again?"  
  
The twinkles fades. "How about wednesday? Or, depends on how much time you would like between the meetings."  
  
"Wednesday sounds good. Thank you again for accommodating me like this. I will make the best doll you will ever see in return for your kindness," Minho almost snorts at his own words, but this is work after all and he has not only be friendly, but also overly motivated and professional. His words are also cue for Chan to rise off the couch as he does and bow to each other before Minho shows him out of the door.  
  
A few more goodbyes and confirmations that wednesday around the same time is fine later, and Minho basically runs down into the basement.  
  
  
  
  
Jisung is buried deep in thought as he paints the eyes on for the billionth time. There are a lot of tissues on the table, covered in paint because he keeps wiping the eyes off. Minho shows up just at the right time, because he definitely could use some help fixing this damned face.  
  
"How did it go?" Jisung asks and cleans his hands with the apron. He regrets it right away because he knows Minho hates it when he wipes his hands on the material instead of just washing them, but Minho doesn't seem to care this time.  
  
He's energetically searching for something, eyes narrowed and navigating through the room, disoriented. "It was good. He's a hardworking man. Achieved his goals."  
  
"What goals?"  
  
"Wanted to be rich, became rich," Minho mumbles absentmindedly as he walks along the shelves, still looking for something that Jisung doesn't know of.  
  
"What are you looking for? Can I help you or something?" Jisung takes off the apron and joins Minho at the shelf.  
  
"Where is the fucking . . ." Minho mumbles to himself, then sighs in relief and looks up at Jisung from where he kneels. "Could you get this box please?"  
  
Jisung crouches down and spots what his cousin is talking about. It's a little black box, kind of hidden behind a model. He removes the model, grabs the box and puts the other back in its place.  
  
"You know the locked room around the corner? The key is inside the box. It used to be a fitting room because my grandparents used to customize clothes like tailors as well. They taught me, but since I only make smaller things I've never really used the skill for life sized dolls. I think I'll need it now, though," Minho says and walks around the room.  
  
"You're going to make something for Bang Chan?"  
  
Minho thinks for a little bit, as if he hasn't considered his decision in that way. "Yes. That's what I'll do, and you'll help me."  
  
With that, Jisung nods and heads for the hidden door.  
  
The basement is one, large space with only a single corridor around the corner. It looks like it leads into a dead end, but there's actually a door that unfortunately has the same grey color as the walls. It leads to the fitting room Minho mentioned, which was actually a guest room with different purpose. There's a king sized bed and a wardrobe inside, but the wardrobe was used as storage space for the different fabric and sewing material, the bed as a holder for the material used while working, and the big table and sewing machine in the middle of the room completely hide the fact that people were supposed to sleep here in the most isolated room of the house. Minho always hated this room because of that, so he locked it because he doesn't need it. And it's the first time Jisung is seeing it as well.  
  
The dusty blinds and material make Jisung cough when he first enters the room, so he heads right for the windows and tilts them. Minho and him will definitely have some cleaning to do. Not some, a lot of it.  
  
  
In the meantime, Minho grabs the plastic bag Jisung had thrown the shards into. It's difficult to hold onto the material, but the tips of his fingers are free so he can dig into the thin plastic and hold it like that. Kind of clumsy, but nobody sees it anyway.  
  
Back to the living room. Minho puts the plastic bag down and fishes for his purse somewhere in the drawers, until he's finally found it and managed to stuff it into the back pocket of his dress pants.  
  
He shoulders the plastic bag this time, a stupid decision for the shards may have cut the thin plastic and are peeking out. But his jacket shields him from possible pain and so, Minho is out of the door as quickly as Bang Chan had been.  
  
  
Minho is met with an autumn breeze. It licks at his face gently, dancing through his hair and lifting an imaginary weight off his shoulders. It's been a while since he's last been outside, a few days already perhaps, so this is good for him in many ways. The sun is already setting, but that doesn't mean the stores are closing.  
  
He'll just look around. Place an order. The actual shopping will occur when Jisung is with him.  
  
He takes the two, three steps down and throws the plastic bag next to them, loud shattering sounding as the shards hit the uneven ground. The neighboring stores and actual neighbors could have heard it -- it's so quiet tonight, no soul left to encounter. Minho doesn't speak much to his neighbors, so bothering them will seem less excusable. But he doesn't necessarily care.  
  
 _Jisung is probably confused,_ Minho thinks as he crosses the street and passes street lamp after street lamp. He hasn't told Jisung what he's up to, not about throwing the broken model away or going to check up on something. But his cousin isn't stupid, and will most likely get to work already or continue his own doll. Either way, Minho doesn't care. He has a plan and a customer to please.  
  
Not only a customer to please, but also himself.  
  
Once more, the shattering of the porcelain rings loudly in Minho's ear. Ever since that day, it seems like a never-ending loop in his brain that Minho simply ignores until it's fought for dominance again and makes itself heard.  
  
He does now. Minho told Chan that he hates scars, but there's something he actually hates more than that. And it's this stupid fucking sound.  
  
It doesn't leave him alone though.  
  
It's always there and he forgets about it until he remembers.  
  
Until he can hear it again, loud and clear, in his brain, as if something has slipped through his vulnerable and ruined fingers again.  
  
It's going to leave scars. Minho hates scars.  
  
Thankfully, the shop he wants to visit isn't too far away.  
  
He usually requests certain fabric and material there and buys it in large quantities, depending on how much he's made in that month. Minho tries to buy new material every month, but before his little shop became known, it was difficult to afford.  
  
Now, Minho will make a request of which the outcome is already bright in his inner eye. He can visualize every little detail and he needs it to come to life -- now. He needs the material before Chan is back on wednesday, in five days.  
  
  
Minho enters the store and doesn't do as much as look at what it has to offer. He approaches the owner right away, and places an urgent order.  
  
The finished thing will be perfect. But he'll need Bang Chan's help for that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Jisung is still dusting off the table, sneezing uncontrollably. The lamp in the room throws dancing light on him, going on and off until it finally goes out.  
  
It's old. Everything in this room is too old.  
  
Now that the light is out and the room is completely dark, Jisung notices how freezing cold it actually is here. He tries to find his way back to the door, tapping through the dark with no orientation. He's nowhere close to the door, of that he's sure, because he's strolled around the table and the boxes and crawled across the bed towards the windows, which now only offer a tiny bit of light, too little to be of use in his search of finding the goddamn door.  
  
This room is like a prison cell, Jisung thinks, and it's true. The stone, grey walls resemble a cell like no other room in a family home could. Jisung finds it hard to believe that this room was ever supposed to room guests of the family. Who would put their guests into a cell down in the basement? No wonder Minho had this room locked. For other than the sewing purposes, it's useless.  
  
Jisung runs into the corner of the table. Pain shoots through his waist and Jisung hisses, clutching his side. "Fuck you," he hisses at the table as if it was its fault. "Fucking..."  
  
He sighs, and now with only one hand extended, tries to keep going. This room is so unnecessarily spacious. The only good thing is that, well, there _are_ walls, and Jisung will have to run into them anytime soon. It's not like the room is endless.  
  
He can't even remember closing the door, but it's heavy so it must have fallen shut behind him while he was too busy coughing up his lungs at the dust to notice. If it were open, the lamps he left on in the workshop would provide enough light so he could find his way out.  
  
Before he can cuss himself out for not paying attention and letting the door fall shut, cold stone rubs against his finger tips. Finally, the wall. If there'd been any light in this room he probably would have looked like a complete fool, walking this carefully to not stumble over or run into something. But there's nobody around and Jisung has finally made it. He runs both of his hands along the wall now, even though his side still stings, and soon enough he's met with the metal door. Somewhere levelled with his belly should be the door knob.  
  
He searches and searches and searches but it's not there. "What do you mean . . ." Jisung breathes out and starts running his hands along the door faster. All the way from the top to the bottom.  
  
There is no door knob.  
  
"The fuck is this room?" Jisung kicks the door and tries one more time, in vain. There's nothing here. No knob, no handle, nothing.  
  
But there is just no way that the door is only openable from the outside. It doesn't make any sense. This was supposed to be a guestroom? Fuck. Whoever came up with this was a fucking psychopath.  
  
He started hitting the door. "Minho! Minho get me out of here, please!"  
  
And now that he knows there's basically no way out until Minho frees him, he's starting to panic.  
  
He doesn't want to be locked in here. Nobody would, but he finds himself falling into a state of panic that he hasn't quite experienced yet.  
  
The walls are starting to feel closer, as if they're teaming up against him and moving closer, trapping him in smaller space. Nothing is moving, but Jisung can't help but feel like there is.  
  
Trapped. He feels trapped.  
  
Jisung turns around and presses his back against the wall. Minho isn't home. If he were, he would have come by now. He'd been the energetic one, searching eagerly for the key to this hellish room so he can step inside. And his path is freed now, but Jisung is trapped.  
  
Just a few rays of light fall into the room across from him.  
  
It's the moon light, or a street lamp, and Jisung figures that he could technically leave through the window.  
  
That's what he's going to do.  
  
He hates this room. Just as much as Minho hates scars. He'll never step foot inside again.  
  
Jisung moves, no, runs towards the window, this time keeping his hands levelled with his waist so he blocks off the table once he's reached it. He navigates around it, trips over sewing supplies and there's burning pain in his ankle. He first thinks it was the sharp edge of the box, but as soon as he feels something hot trickle along his foot he knows it must have been something . . . sharper.  
  
It doesn't occupy him.  
  
Jisung feels along the metal frame of the window, searching for a handle so he can jump out. This might be the basement, but the house is built on a higher platform accessed through stairs, which means a part of the basement is accessible from the outside, only through these windows. Judging from what he can see outside, it will lead him to the back yard.  
  
He feels for the handles he'd used to tilt the windows, and pulls them to the side so he can open the window completely -- but it's stuck. "What kind of complete fucking idiot installs windows that can't be opened?" Jisung groans and pulls harder, but it doesn't open. These windows can only be tilted.  
  
But the light breeze flowing through the tiny gap separating him from the outside is somewhat comforting. Jisung hates this closed space, having no way out it feels like hell, but the wind is a little something from the outside world he has no access to.  
  
And he can see.  
  
And he knows that he just saw a pair of feet, so naturally, he calls out, "Minho?"  
  
There's silence for a few seconds in which Jisung fears he has to give up. But then Minho's face appears in the corner of the window, from a direction the feet hadn't headed into. But maybe he's wrong.  
  
"What the hell are you up to?" Minho asks and tries to look past him. "Why is it so dark?"  
  
"The lighbulb gave up and the door can only be opened from the outside. I'm stuck," Jisung says, and now that he's speaking his worry he feels kind of stupid.  
  
Minho sighs. "Give me a second. I'll get you out of there."  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
It's tuesday and four days have passed since the incident in the room. Jisung still hasn't gone anywhere near it again.  
  
Minho sighs, "Jisung, it's not that bad. You just have to put a chair in the way so it doesn't fall shut by itself."  
  
Jisung pokes around in his dinner. The table is way too large for the two of them only, so it feels a little lonely. Sometimes the whole house feels lonely. It's too big for two people, let alone one. Jisung wonders how Minho lived here by himself until his arrival without going nuts. Upon that thought, he instantly remembers the incident six months ago.  
  
But that was one time. The second time it happened -- yesterday -- Minho had simply thrown the shards away. Nothing of the like had happened again. People feel unwell sometimes. Jisung tries to not think much of it.  
  
"I don't like the room, though," Jisung says and sucks the vegetables off the chopsticks. "Not going."  
  
"Stop doing that," Minho says, frowning at Jisung sucking his food into his mouth from between the chopsticks. Jisung cooks all the time now, given Minho prefers to spare his hands. Turns out he's a way better cook than Minho anyway, and he likes to do whatever he wants with the results.  
  
"No," Jisung responds and puts his chopsticks down. "I'm full." Pushing his chair back, he makes attempts to rise, but Minho gestures for him to stay put. He falls back into his seat, sighing. Today was a late dinner. Jisung is tired and simply wants to crawl under his blankets, pushing his face into the crack between bed and wall.  
  
Minho swallows his final piece of beef and proceeds. "I got mail today," he announces and slides an envelope accross the table. It's torn open. "From my sister."  
  
"Heeyeon?" Jisungs eyes widen. He knows Heeyeon doesn't keep in touch with Minho at all. It's been almost three years since they have last seen each other, the occasion being the birth of her child.  
  
"Read it," Minho nods at him and Jisung pulls out the neatly folded paper so cautiously as if it could crumble upon his touch.  
  


 _Dearest Minho,  
  
It has been quite a while, hasn't it? My daughter keeps asking about you. She likes the pictures of you that we have, but sadly they are not particularly new. I want to announce great news . . . a second baby is on the way! That's right, my little one is going to be a big sister. Her third birthday is soon, and the occasion will be held over two days -- the first one being her birthday, and the second being a family-and-friends gathering to welcome the addition to the family a little early this time. (It's already been six months . . .)  
  
I'd love to have you here. Your niece would be happy to no end about your presence and a few photos with you as well. And you always liked touching my belly-bomb, so here's another chance.  
  
You hopefully know your niece's birth date. Otherwise you can't come~ I'm just kidding. But I won't tell you her birthday anyway.  
  
Please do come. Bring Jisung! He was a baby the last time I saw him. How old is he now? Seventeen?  
  
Your dear big sister  
Heeyeon_  
  
  
"I'm eighteen . . ." Jisung mumbles and Minho laughs.  
  
"Not too far off," Minho says and smiles. Minho smiling has never been a rare occasion, but ever since Bang Chan's request he's been smiling non-stop because he's been working non-stop. Although he can't use his hands much he is always running around, doing something, preparing something for tomorrow, getting his orders. The parcels have been piling up on the counter.  
  
"Do you want to go?" Minho asks and Jisung widens his eyes at him.  
  
"You're joking right? Of course we're going! It's your niece's birthday soon and your sister is having a second baby!"  
  
"Alright."  
  
Jisung is suspicious. "Wait . . . did you forget when it is?"  
  
"Of course not," Minho laughs. "It's in about a month, a monday, I think."  
  
"And we can stay for two days?"  
  
"If you want to go earlier, I suppose we can," Minho shrugs and leans back in his chair.  
  
"No that's not what I meant. Let's go."  
  
"You don't have anything to wear though," Minho remarks. "For the occasion, I mean."  
  
Jisung runs a hand through his dark hair. "That's true, I--"  
  
"You can wear a suit of mine," Minho suggests and gets up. "How about we check them out?"  
  
"Seriously?!"  
  
"Yeah," his cousin laughs and shakes his bangs out of his eyes. "I have a lot."  
  
  
  
  
Upstairs, the two of them retrieve outfit after outfit from Minho's wardrobe. Minho's hung the suit jackets with their matching pants and shirts he thinks are most fitting. His collection of ties is way smaller in comparison. "I don't like to wear ties," is Minho's reason. "Makes me feel stuck." It reminds Jisung of the room in the basement.  
  
"Wow, this one is awesome," Jisung holds up a deep black suit with shimmering blue details on the collar. A glittery, wavy pattern graced the dark material and seemingly polished buttons accentuated it.  
  
"You can have it," Minho says as he awkwardly lets go of the suits he's embracing to fall on the bed. "I've worn that one time I think. Don't even remember what for."  
  
"You think I should try it on?"  
  
"Go for it."  
  
Jisung does. The pants are a little too long, but according to Minho it's 'nothing he doesn't have the skills to fix for'. It fills Jisung with a certain satisfaction, learning that he knows how to fix clothes that don't sit perfectly. Minho said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but it feels like a great accomplishment to Jisung.  
  
He does like this work.  
  
Maybe he'll rethink his choice about staying away from the room in the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry the update took so long, it's 10k to make up for the wait! hope you like it. don't shy away from interacting with me as well hehe

**Author's Note:**

> twitter and curious cat: ecstatic_shock


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